


Something Wild

by Mellofluous



Category: True Detective
Genre: 1995, Blow Jobs, First Time, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 14:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellofluous/pseuds/Mellofluous
Summary: In the bar, Rust is looking him right in the eye, not evading like every other day they’ve spent together, and Marty hears himself saying “I like somethin’ wild,” and “this is part on you,” and if Rust’s not on board with whatever this new thing is, Marty’s fucked for sure.





	Something Wild

Laid bare in the hospital hallway, Marty burns where Rust’s hand rests like a brand on his chest, restraining him from demolishing his own marriage. His heart pounds blood to the five points of contact. Marty lifts his eyes and catches Rust’s gaze, nearly inadvertently, maybe pulled there subconsciously, he doesn’t know what shit got him here.  Rust’s breath brushes up against Marty’s face in puffs, and the moment hangs between them, heavy with something that Marty has avoided thinking about for the last three months. Something raw, something that’s had Marty fucking Lisa and beating the shit out of CI’s in an effort to forget.

“We got to work,” growls Rust, and Marty wonders if he’s seeing his own realization reflected in Rust’s eyes, if he’s acknowledging something too. He’s probably known this was coming since day one, but Marty’s catching up.

In the bar, Rust is looking him right in the eye, not evading like every other day they’ve spent together, and Marty hears himself saying “I like somethin’ wild,” and “this is part on you,” and if Rust’s not on board with whatever this new thing is, Marty’s fucked for sure.

But maybe he knows exactly what’s going on in Marty’s head, because he wraps an arm around him and takes him home (“Gonna love this jacket”), and then Rust is hiking up his shirt, and Marty’s averting his eyes, wrapping himself in black leather, surrounded by Rust’s familiar smoky scent. Rust is swigging Jameson like it’s sweet tea, and Marty’s pants are feeling tighter. Rust is unwinding a belt from his bicep, and Marty is finally making a decision, following him into the main room.

“What you doin,’ Marty?” Rust’s eyes are intensely blue, burning into Marty’s, as he presses Rust flat up against the wall with hands on his chest and hip. Marty’s seen Rust cruise through life, his emotions smoothed into a gray mass of nothing, occasionally breaking into brief fits of passion. He can tell that tonight Rust is on the edge of becoming something new, or something old, but mostly something real, and the knowledge excites him just as much as the sensation of warm, firm flesh heaving up and down beneath his hands with each deep breath Rust takes. Marty’s pulse is throbbing in his fingertips, so he digs them further into the hard curves of Rust’s pelvis, and the liquor intensifies the swimming sensation in his head as he surges forward the last few inches to press his lips against the beat pounding in Rust’s throat.

Rust makes a rough noise and goes completely still, muscles standing out stiffly in his neck. Marty risks a glance upward to his face and sees that Rust is trying to check out of his mind, staring into the corner of the room with his arms locked against Marty, not pushing, just holding him back a few scant inches. Marty doesn’t have time for that.

He returns to the barely stubbled patch of skin at the curve of Rust’s jaw, tonguing slowly upward and blowing lightly as he traces around the shell of his ear. Rust jerks beneath his hands and exhales shakily. Marty’s right hand creeps under the hem of Rust’s undershirt, thumb smoothing over the bottom edge of his left oblique, coming to rest just beneath the edge of Rust’s waistband. Marty wants to press his lips there next, wants to nose past the edge of Rust’s slacks and taste the thin skin covering his hipbone. The pressure between his legs is becoming unbearable, held at a distance from the heated body before him, and he squirms in a vain attempt to create some friction in his jeans.

He shifts to kiss down Rust’s chest, tongue reaching his clavicle, when Rust groans quietly and finally moves, flips them around, his hand coming to encircle the back of Marty’s neck, hips bracing him against the wall. His eyes flick wildly over Marty’s face and down his body, and if Marty had any doubts left, that would have knocked them into the next fucking week. Marty’s cock fills completely and presses hotly against Rust’s hip, and he grinds forward, moaning softly at the hint of pressure between their bodies. He feels an answering ridge growing in Rust’s slacks, and Rust’s face sharpens into an unfamiliar expression right before he’s crashing back into Marty, tongue pressing between Marty’s teeth.

Until today, Marty had never realized how much he wanted this, how long he had been waiting for the moment when their bodies collided, not in anger, but another type of passion. He’s shaking with need, reeling with the knowledge that Rust wants this too, as Rust presses his leg forward, forcing Marty’s knees further apart, rubbing his thigh upward and _shit,_ Marty can’t remember the last time he felt anticipation like this. Their tongues tangle and Marty fights to regain the upper hand while Rust pops the snaps down the front of Marty’s flannel, tearing it off his shoulders and down as Marty arches away from the wall (into Rust’s crotch) to make space for it to fall to the floor.

Marty utters a desperate sound as he shoves Rust away and down toward the mattress. Before he can join Rust on the sheets, Rust is reaching up to Marty’s belt, unbuckling and unzipping him to free his eager erection. Marty gasps in relief as the cool of the late winter air in the apartment hits his heated flesh, and then sucks in another harsh breath as Rust licks a long line up his penis.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears, digging fingers into Rust’s soft fucking hair which are quickly slapped away, and then Rust is grabbing him by the hips and sucking him down in earnest. His fingers are bright points of pain in the meat of Marty’s backside, and it’s probably wise of Rust to work so hard to hold him still, because Marty feels an overwhelming urge to snap his hips forward, fucking that mouth so hard it’ll be a week before Rust can deliver another lecture on human consciousness.

Marty’s never had his dick sucked by a man, never done any kind of shit with a man, and Rust’s mouth seems huge in comparison, hot tongue curling and flexing along his length. And fuck, _fuck_ it makes a difference being blown by someone who knows what feels good, because Rust is humming or groaning, and no woman has ever tried that, but Marty knows it would feel nothing like these deep dark vibrations starting in his dick and climbing up his spine, tightening in his balls. Marty is close, so fucking close, but he can’t come this quick, not with _Rust,_ so he bites the heel of his hand, the pain bringing him back from the edge far enough that he can push Rust off of him.

Panting, balls aching, he strips his undershirt off and watches hungrily as Rust does the same, one hand dragging the hem up to expose those scars again and more; an angular tattoo on the smooth skin over one pectoral. Rust kicks off his boots and Marty strips off his jeans before reaching down to remove Rust’s slacks and underwear, tossing them against the wall to form a pile of damning evidence.

Rust lounges back on his elbows, haloed by the stark white sheets. Marty looks him up and down hungrily; long fucking legs meeting in dark curls. Rust’s dick is long and lean and unmistakably hard, curving slightly away from the rigid muscle of his lower abs. Marty feels a slight thrill thinking this’ll be the first time he fucks someone taller and stronger than himself; Rust could probably kill him with his bare hands if he doesn’t like how this goes. The idea shouldn’t appeal to him as much as it does, but he feels his hands trembling with desire, twitching and ready to grab some of that suntanned flesh.

“What you want?” Rust asks, and Marty’s not about to admit that he’s not too sure what to do with a man, so he kneels down, and Rust rises up to straddle Marty’s hips. Rust’s tongue traces the outline of Marty’s lips before pushing inside, skimming over the slick skin just inside his mouth. Marty reaches up to rest his fingers against the hinge of Rust’s jaw, thinking about all the times his attention had landed there while watching Rust talk. How the muscles lock up when Rust is angry and flex smoothly when he drinks. Marty’s not gay, he’s _not_ , but there’s something about Rust that’s always rubbed against him, and this finally makes sense. He wants to eat Rust whole, wants to strip pleasure out of his flesh, wants to make him admit to being human. He wants Rust Cohle coming to pieces, to get some kind of fucking reaction from this stone-carved man.

He bites Rust’s bottom lip, and Rust makes a sound that’s half growl, half cry; Marty wonders if this is a Crash sound, because he’s sure as shit never heard anything like it come out of Rust. Whatever it is, Marty is instantly addicted to it, needs more of that fucking noise. Rust likes a little pain? Marty can work with that.

Before he can make another move, though, Rust starts to grind down against him, and even with his boxers still on, Marty knows this is going to finish him. He hasn’t had sex in over a week; he can’t last. Rust’s cock is lined up alongside Marty’s own, and each rotation of his hips drags him up Marty’s length. Marty’s so hard he can’t see straight, breath fast and harsh. He’s gripping Rust’s ass, legs shaking where they’re folded up underneath him. The discomfort of this position is getting fucked up in his mind and adding to the pleasure building in his groin. His hips jerk upward without any rhythm, chasing completion, and Rust pulls back from the kiss to smirk down at him. Bastard knows how close Marty is, increases the pace of his grinding.

And Marty’s nearly there, so close it burns, but he needs just a little more. His legs unfold, tipping Rust over backwards onto the bed, and Marty thrusts against him five, six times before the orgasm bursts between his legs, and he’s coming, and coming. Pleasure spreads over him, the head of his penis sliding over the slick spot in his boxers as his hips pulse forward again and again until finally he collapses, falling over onto his side, panting.

Dazedly, he rolls his eyes over to watch as Rust, still hard, reaches down and jerks himself in short fast strokes. There’s a rough groan at the start of each of his breaths, and Marty watches his lean body stretch backwards until his shoulders are pressed into the mattress, ribcage arching upwards off the sheets.

Marty’s never seen anything like it. The words escape Marty’s mouth before he can stop them: “Fuck, Rust, that’s—“ and then Rust throws back his head, long neck exposed, goes completely silent, and begins to spill into his hands. His wiry muscles bunch and jump with each shock until he utters a long graveled moan and stills. His belly button is full of jizz.

Marty’s fighting to stay awake as he reluctantly removes his ruined boxers, berating himself for his reluctance, like it’s gonna make a difference now if Rust sees his naked ass. Cleans himself up a little, before Rust grabs the damp fabric out of his hands and mops his own abdomen with it.

“The fuck was that about, Marty?” Rust grabs his lighter out of his jeans and takes a deep drag before easing back down, blowing smoke straight into the air above him.

Marty doesn’t say that Rust looked like he needed a tether to reality tonight, doesn’t indicate that he’s been building up to this for weeks, doesn’t admit how much Rust’s macho performance tonight turned him on. “Well _you_ bought me a drink and suggested we shack up. Seemed rude to ignore signs like that.” His grin might be a shade pale, because Rust looks unconvinced as he passes the cigarette over.

Marty loses consciousness watching smoke swirl above him in the dim light. Tomorrow he’ll go see Maggie, sober, clean this mess up. She never had been any good at saying no to him for long. He needed a good fuck tonight, but he doesn’t owe Rust shit.

The next day Rust is pacing around the kitchen, fully dressed, buzzing to get to work. He goes over the plan while Marty tries to ignore the way Rust’s eyes keep landing on his lips. Marty doesn’t want anyone knowing he’s on the rocks with Maggie, and Rust has to drop Marty off at the hospital parking lot so they can arrive separately at the office.

By all appearances, they’re going to forget about last night, and Marty figures it’s for the best. He’s never stepping out on Maggie again, he’s never going to get anyone better than her, certainly not Rust (“Enough of this self-improvement, penance, hand-wringin’ shit”).

Yeah. It’s for the best.


End file.
